Sherlock's Return
by greieve
Summary: SPOILER ALERT: 'The Reichenbach Fall'. John is left to live on his own, but some events lead him to believe that Sherlock may still be alive. Eventual slash; Johnlock. Currently abandoned.
1. Coping

**A/N: Alright, so this is my first try at a Sherlock fic, so please bear with me. If you have any construstive criticism, I'd love to hear it so that I can try to improve my writing. Tell me what you think.**

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><p>"<em>John!"<em>

Sherlock's voice came from somewhere close by, but John couldn't quite locate the man who had called his name.

"_Sherlock,_" replied John in a contained shout. "Where in God's name _are_ you?" He had been running in circles for what seemed like hours. The world's only consulting detective was in danger once again; and yet again, it was John to the rescue.

John spun around swiftly when he heard a metallic clang sound from behind him. The whole place was shrouded in darkness, and the good doctor struggled to make out Sherlock's lithe form in the shadowy air. Suddenly the entire room was filled with a brilliant bright light, and John was forced onto his knees, shielding his eyes from the harmful rays.

"_Goodbye, John."_

The doctor could only just make out the hushed words through his overwhelming senses, and he stood then, forcing his eyes to adjust to the light. And there he was, arms extended, as if crucified; long blue coat billowing in the chilly wind, ready to jump from the edge and end his life.

Only something was wrong. John found himself standing not below Sherlock, but _behind_ him. In his right hand he held a gun, arm out front and aiming at the back of Sherlock's head.

_No!_ John thought desperately as he fought his own actions. _What am I doing? This can't be happening! Not again, oh please God, no…_

Still fighting, John watched in horror as his thumb rose to cock the revolver. His index finger tensed and tightened against the trigger.

Then, time seemed to slow down. A faint burst of gunpowder exploded from the barrel, releasing the bullet from its chamber and sent it flying toward its target—the detective's head.  
>The bullet entered with a sickening, bone-shattering crunch. Blood spurted from Sherlock's gaping skull and he fell—fell down into the sunlit street below.<p>

Time sped up again, and John could hear screams from the pedestrians at the gruesome sight which had just befallen them. The wail of sirens shortly followed, and the good doctor's heart was shattered by the broken body of his best friend as he gazed over the ledge below.

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><p>"<em>Sherlock!"<em>

John flew up in bed, shivering and covered in a sheen of sweat as he screamed his best friend's name. Breathing heavily for a few moments, eyes darting around the darkened room, John realized where he was; his bedroom at 221B Baker Street. He lay back down with a sob, still shaking with remnants of his dream.

It had been two years since Reichenbach—and Sherlock's death. John had been having variations of that hellish nightmare almost every night; watching Sherlock die over and over while being powerless to stop it. And worse, it was _him_ who killed his best friend, time and time again.

John's breathing steadily slowed as he forced his body to relax.  
>"It's only a dream…" he whispered to himself. "Just a dream…"<p>

When he had finally calmed, John glanced at the clock. It was just after eight in the morning. With a groan, he forced himself out of bed and into the bathroom. He looked at the mirror, barely recognizing the tired blue eyes that gazed back.

The doctor had been living in a shocked daze for those two long years. Sherlock had been his best friend, the most amazing, brilliant person he had ever met. He put meaning into John's life again; the ex-army doctor with PTSD and a psychosomatic limp. Sherlock showed him the excitement in an otherwise dull world, where they could work together to take criminals off the streets. To know that such a wonderful way of life could exist with Sherlock, having it suddenly taken away was unimaginable. It was like the army all over again, but somehow worse.

John blinked, clearing his thoughts and turning away from the mirror. He had to move on with his life, no matter how hard that may be. Just the memory of Sherlock's broken and bloodied body… It was too much for him to bear. The doctor turned on the hot water in the shower, stepping into the almost-scalding spray. He sighed heavily, letting the heat run over his body and clear his thoughts.

Leaning one arm against the shower wall, John closed his eyes, letting his right hand travel slowly down his chest and torso until it reached his cock. He groaned and put his head down, feeling the steaming water run over his body and relax the tense muscles. This was his only time to forget—the only time he _could_ forget—about everything and just let go. John ran his fist slowly along his hardened shaft, feeling the fatigue unravel itself from his mind. His breathing quickened with each slow progression; every time the sleek head appeared from between his closed thumb and index finger. All he could hear now was the rushing of blood in his ears, instead of the sickening thud of Sherlock hitting cement. All he could feel now was the warmth radiating throughout his body, not the chill of the London air as Sherlock stood atop St. Bartholomew's. He began to thrust slowly, feeling the pit of his stomach clench in anticipation. Faster, faster; until everything became white hot pleasure and sweet nothing. For just a moment, all of John's worries were washed away. For just a moment, he could forget.

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><p>Now dressed, John made his way into the kitchen to make toast and tea. He sat on the couch with his breakfast, looking around the small room as if trying to memorize every detail. He had left much of Sherlock's work alone, not knowing what to do with it, but not having the heart to toss any of it. His wandering eyes met the skull, still sitting on the mantelpiece. Its large empty eye sockets seemed to stare right back at him, and John couldn't suppress a small smile. That skull had helped John through so much after Sherlock's passing. Though he felt stupid at first, the good doctor had found himself talking to the skull, spilling his heart out, and then being surprised to hear it respond.<p>

The detective's scoffing voice had replied to John the first time he had spoken to the skull. It had startled him at first, but now he had grown accustomed to hearing Sherlock's voice once again. And even though John knew it was all in his head, he found the skull oddly comforting. He had even gone so far as to name it after Sherlock himself.

"So, Sherlock," started John, taking a sip of tea. "What's new?"

_I truly admire your feeble attempt at making conversation, John, _retorted the skull, _but obviously nothing __**new**__ has happened since we spoke last. Which, by the way, was exactly seven hours and twenty-three minutes ago. I am just a skull, you know._

John was crunching through his second piece of toast now, sighing inwardly. He really needed a hobby…


	2. Confusion

**Continuing the story! I plan on bringing Sherlock into the next chapter. Sorry my chapters are so short, I'm not good at writing for a long period of time.  
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><p>"<em>Your card is unauthorized, please select a different method of payment."<em>

John gritted his teeth in frustration, trying very hard not to take a whack at the check-out machine. He'd come to the conclusion long ago that most machines just hated him, especially the ones at the grocers. Or maybe it was just his card that always failed, John mused.

With a pang of guilt, John opened his wallet and pulled out Sherlock's debit card, remembering the countless times he'd had to repeat this process. He swiped the card, and _hallelujah,_ the stupid git machine accepted it. He still didn't know why _this_ always seemed to work, but hey, he wasn't complaining.

_I'll have to put some more money on the account, _thought John. He was sure the balance was almost depleted by now; judging by the countless times he'd used Sherlock's card.

Gathering up the grocery bags, John walked over to an ATM machine to do just that. Resting the paper bag on his left hip, John tapped in Sherlock's Debit Card information, wanting to transfer money from his account onto Sherlock's.  
>What he saw next almost caused the bag to slip; someone had already put money onto the card. John's heart rate picked up, but he quickly forced himself to calm down. Hope was such a dangerous emotion.<br>He was really getting himself worked up over nothing—for all he knew, Mycroft could've kept Sherlock's account supplied. Though John hadn't heard from Sherlock's brother since the funeral, so why would he be putting money into his dead sibling's account?

John shook his head, it was probably just a mistake anyway. Cancelling his previous transaction, he hefted up the grocery bag and started out the door, stepping into the chilly London air. It was a bit colder than before, so he decided to grab a taxi back to the flat.  
>Yeah, like <em>that<em> was gonna happen…

Five minutes later, John was still walking along the street, trying to hail a cab. Today just wasn't his lucky day, he thought grimly. He looked up at the gray sky, and the vast expanse of cumulonimbus clouds covering the atmosphere and blocking out the sun. A moment later, John felt the first drops of a storm. Great. The flat was still a twenty-minute walk away.

Now a crowd of pedestrians were having the same idea; yet all managing to get a cab. John sighed in frustration, wondering if he should just start jumping around like a lunatic to get the drivers' attention. He was just thinking this through when a tall figure with a ratty looking coat stepped up about three yards to John's left. He was wearing a dark hood, probably to protect himself from the rain; and fingerless gloves on each hand. He raised his right arm, signaling for a taxi.  
>To be honest, the man looked like a bum, and John briefly wondered how he would pay for a cab.<p>

As he watched, a taxi pulled up not three seconds after the man had raised his arm. He opened the door, looked over at John, then disappeared into an alley.

John took a moment to squint into the darkness of the alley, trying to catch a glimpse of the strange man. But the driver was tired of waiting, and shouted at him to get in. In a flurry, John bundled into the cab and gave him the address.

As he was riding in the backseat, looking out the window and following trails of raindrops, John did sort of a double take; he tried to remember everything about the man who had gotten his cab. Under the ratty black hoodie, John could faintly remember seeing a familiar blue-grey gleam of two tired but otherwise bright eyes. Framing the stranger's face—or what John could see of it—had been thick, dark locks of hair. And when he had raised his arm to call the taxi—well. You couldn't mistake those long fingers if you tried. And boy did John try. He didn't want this feeling of hope to bubble up in his stomach. He didn't want to know that, against all odds, there was the tiny possibility that Sherlock had somehow survived; didn't want to know the truth. But most of all, he was afraid.

John scoffed a bit at the realization—the fear. It was his natural pride, his soldier's instinct not to admit weakness. But here he was, afraid. Afraid of what, exactly? Disappointment? Defeat? But no—no, it was much more than that. He didn't want to have his heart broken again; his mind shattered. They say that for every year you know someone, it takes three to get over them. John was just going onto his third and final year; he didn't want to have to start all over again. He didn't think he could take it.

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><p>The familiar squeal of the kettle arose John from his doze on the sofa. He went into the kitchen to pour his tea, then settled back down into the well-worn cushions. Tentatively sipping the hot liquid, John remembered something that Sherlock had once said to him.<p>

_Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

Those words, spoken with such fear at the time, swirled around in John's head and bounced off the walls of the flat. Or maybe that was just the skull talking again…

He dropped his head in his hands. "What should I do, Sherlock?" he muttered. "Tell me what to do."

'_Well,' _replied the skull, _'you could start by getting off your arse and actually make an attempt to find the truth. Once you have eliminated the impossible—'_

"—whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," finished John sarcastically. "Yes, I've got it." He downed the rest of his tea and stood. "Well, I'm off to bed then. It's been a long day, and I need some sodding rest."

Though he didn't get much. John tossed and turned all night, watching Sherlock jump again and again. Only this time, he was in the street. And he kept catching glimpses of those sea-green eyes staring at him from the alleyways.


End file.
